Ashley didn't knock. She never had to. The door gave way and the house answered back with the smell of stewed tomatoes, fresh basil, and the floor polish her mother swore by.
"Ash?" her mother called from the kitchen. "Is that you?"
"It's me."
Her mother appeared wiping her hands on a towel, eyes searching first, then softening when she saw Ashley's face. "You look definitely better than the last time I saw you," she said, "Come here, let me hold you a second. She wrapped Ashley in a hug that smelled like thyme and home.
"I'm fine, Mum," Ashley said into her shoulder. "We are good now."
"Then sit," her mother said, steering her to the kitchen table like a gentle tugboat guiding a ship. "I made Jollof. Your father's pretending he doesn't like the pepper today."
"I like the pepper," came her father's voice from the living room, accompanied by the creak of his favorite chair. "I just like my tongue, too."
Ashley laughed. It loosened something tight in her chest.
